


Hex

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drug Addiction, F/M, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Pete and Patrick attend a Halloween party. The ghost of their past relationship makes an appearance, along with fresh terrors.Canon timeline, October 2012.





	Hex

Patrick laughed at the joke. It was a heavy, wet sound, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. When the last puff of laughter came, he had forgotten what the joke was. It didn’t matter, he had to shake the label executive’s hand. He reached out.

“Oh definitely,” he chimed. His hand was cold in this guy’s grip. Shit, he hoped that wasn’t weird. Nah. Mr. Wrinkles here was probably more concerned with the success of their comeback. Everyone else was. “We’re glad to have your support. This is a huge move for us. For who we are.”

“I’d imagine so, yes. Do we have a due date?”

“About six months from today.”

“The title?”

Patrick laughed again, though it was less intense than the previous burst. The eye contact he had initiated was severed with a shrug, “Not sure. Maybe ask Pete. He’s the one that keeps saying we’re ‘diving into a new flow’.”

“Mm. Well, it doesn’t matter right now. It just needs to sell,” the executive reminded. He nodded.

Patrick nodded. He didn’t know why and excused himself. Plus, he couldn’t remember this guy’s name for a proper goodbye. So.

A waitress bearing a platter of champagne flutes had two nicked by Patrick, his wicked smile matching his appearance when she turned to scowl. He had reused his devil costume from last Halloween’s performance on the Soul Punk tour, flashing red horns and all. It was hot, the suit and the refusal of Los Angeles to cool off for October to blame. He knew he was sweating. He knocked back the champagne, each glass placed on a decorative metal table. He had wandered into a hallway with several of these tables, which he figured it was as good a place as any to abandon a glass. He leaned against the wall with eyes shut. The conversations he had endured this evening replayed behind his eyelids. Especially the ones where he talked too fast or became giggly out of nowhere. A wince crossed his features.

He was high.

With this party and its infestation of higher ups looking for promises of a smash-hit record next year, he had been nervous that afternoon. He had done an extra bump after lunch and passed out on the sofa. He had awoken to missed calls from Joe, Elisa, and one of his producers. It had be a ‘Fuck. Fuck it!’ moment where he cleared the missed call notification and went to drink the remainder of his lukewarm latte. He remembered clutching the counter for support, the paper fiber cup dropped to the tile. Another line was pushed through his system before he left the condo and slipped downtown. Of course, he had brought a baggie with him, but the night was young. Like an underaged sweet heart begging him to just go for it. He touched his left pocket.

“No.”

Inside the pocket, he felt around, his fingers still cold. The plastic greeted him, crinkly and containing powdered relief. He exhaled through his nose with the baggie soon encased in his hand. He could almost detect a pulse within, his own beginning to sprint.

There was enough for two hits. He had measured it out, an old guitar pick having helped divide the chalky pile on his nightstand. Right. He could do the first hit now. He could.

“Restroom?” Patrick asked a passing butterfly. Ladybug? He wasn’t sure, the only parts of her costume he could interpret with certainty were the antennas and wings. 

“Huh?”

“ _Restroom_.”

She scrunched her eyebrows, and perked for a moment, almost recognizing Patrick. She shrugged, “There should be one upstairs.”

“I thought we already were upstairs?”

“I mean the third floor, whatever.”

She turned, her form melding into the sparse crowd beyond the hallway. The pumpkin-shaped lanterns above caused Patrick to squint after her. He couldn’t tell if it was her turning back to look at him. Or someone else. He aimed his head at the floor and began to walk. 

Fortunately, the hallway he had stood in led to a landing for the staircase. He looked up to see that there were two floors above him. A four story house? Near Santa Monica? He couldn’t recall which fat cat this place belonged to, but God, they must have some kind of money. His fingers traced over the cravings on the maple railing, climbing. 

Patrick needed more money. He wasn’t greedy or anything - it was that his habit had become expensive. Especially when lusting for that superior quality stuff. More and more was becoming part of his daily routine. It was first thing on the roll out of bed, during the morning commute, with the afternoon coffee run, and four minutes past midnight following a bad fucking dream. Sometimes more or less depending on who he was seeing that day. 

Today was a day where he had to have more. This party had him stressed.

And if this record didn’t have explosive sales, his lifestyle would have to change. The amount he used wouldn’t be any different, no, he depended on it too much. He would have to stop buying instruments on a whim or stop the improvements on his home studio, he would have to stop helping out friends or family with medical bills. Without a substantial income, he would have to watch his savings and prioritize. Himself and his well-being first. Not that he was being selfish. He had to survive to see this through. The fist he had made around the baggie flexed involuntarily.

“Hnn,” he muttered. He was breathless upon reaching the next landing. The sweat from his scalp was caught by a smearing of hair gel. He ignored anyone around him while walking forward. Although he heard a mix of ‘That’s him’ and ‘Bullshit hiatus’ and ‘Sell outs’ and--

Restroom!

\---

Pete felt drunk. All wiggly movements and nonsensical speech. But he wasn’t truly drunk. It was the fault of the people around him. They seemed to take joy in tripping up his personal bubble and refusing to allow a word in edgewise. 

“No, no. Brendon’s not on the new record,” he attempted to answer the voice that had hollered the question from somewhere behind him. He even answered the following question, “We’re not fighting with him. ‘Course not.”

Several people dispersed at this shift in the conversation. Others were enthralled and looked at Pete with ravenous stares, ready to shove him through the wall with their suffocation. He could sense the tickle of the fake cobwebs near his wrists. He reached one hand over his head and waved. 

“Ah, let me out real quick, guys. Gotta take a leak.”

A little more coaxing, regarding the state of his bladder and how he really, seriously would be back in a flash, and he was gone. Christ. These hounds from the label and their dates were too much. A reminder of why they had removed themselves from the spotlight. And not enough of a reason to keep them out of it.

Pete opened his cell phone, and scrolled past the numerous text messages. None of them were from Patrick. Figures. His initial text asking him how his night was going must not have been dire enough. He began to type out the question ‘Do you need me to give you a ride home later?’, then stopped short. It would probably be faster to ask in person. He sidestepped a group of twenty somethings and returned the cell phone to his pocket. He actually did need to find a restroom.

Across the main floor, past the open bar and spread of sweet and savory snacks, there was a line for the bathroom. Guests were languid on the wall, sipping and flirting and despising the wait time. No good.

Pete assumed the line’s lack of progress was the fault of two main culprits: sex and drugs. Visits to the restroom were definitely slowed by finding a comfortable position to fuck in, or arranging a line to do on the counter. How very.. rock and roll? He supposed it fit the tune of the party. He didn’t like it. Especially not the idea of the latter, it reminded him of his suspicions. 

He was a nosey person, and therefore made suspicious by what he found when he went digging around. Patrick’s behavior on Twitter, the lack of how often he saw him in person, and the weight loss were the three main things that concerned him. He had pinpointed them months ago, unable to find a reason since then. Through stealing Patrick’s cell phone during band practice power naps or asking him directly if he was all right, he had no answers. He was a bad friend, he didn’t know what to do. Something was wrong. His eyes shut at night and saw Patrick. The wrong Patrick. 

“Yeah, hey, it’s me! Haha, sorry, trying to get somewhere.”

With a nod, Pete avoided the group. No time for more chit-chat. He needed take a piss. Maybe he would if everyone hadn’t shoved a bunch of alcohol at him in an attempt to be polite. Without a second thought, he had chosen to be equally polite and chug each drink. He smirked to himself and found the staircase. 

He had to pause along the stairs, his scarf having swung and caught on a splinter from the banister. The damn fringe on the end was too long. Although, he supposed it was worth the trouble from the compliments he had been receiving. His costume was adored, and it was a nice distraction for people. Discussing their comeback exhausted him. Fast.

Complete with green glitter in his hair and painted scales on his cheeks, his costume was of the Starbucks mermaid. He wore a t-shirt with the logo, the flowing scarf serving as the fins for his tail. If that wasn’t enough, he had also nabbed an empty grande cup from his Starbucks run this morning. He would pretend to sip on the straw during photo-ops. It was fun, different - and again, it led people away from questions like ‘Finally going back to your old sound?’ and ‘Are you saving Patrick from that solo career?’. What idiots. His bladder panged with irritation.

Restroom!

\--- 

“Mind if I go ahead?”

“You, oh! Pete!”

Pete’s lips parted in surprise, and he responded to the familiar voice, “Whoa, hey. Are you, you doing all right? I haven’t seen you since last week.”

“Actually, it was eight days ago.”

“What?”

“You haven’t seen me for eight days,” Patrick corrected. He wedged his shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom they had been racing toward. It creaked. Or maybe Patrick had made some little sound. “But yeah, I’m doing all right. It seems like most people here are after you, anyway. I’m safe enough.”

Those last two sentences. They hadn’t meant to be condescending. It was how his tone had been. Lately.

“That’s good. Wouldn’t want people getting too close and smudging that guyshadow you’ve got going on. It’s nice to see the tables turned,” Pete said. He noticed him sway.

“Ha ha,” Patrick said sarcastically. “I was praying someone wouldn’t make that joke. At least it’s you, I suppose I should thank my lucky stars.”

“Patrick?”

“Mmhm?”

Blood was leaking from the corner of Patrick’s left nostril. Bloated and quick, it stopped above his lips and waited to be wiped. Pete wasn’t about to do that. He assumed the least he could do was point it out, and raised a hand.

Patrick half-squirmed, half-jumped into the bathroom to avoid the hand. The movement forced the blood to spatter his bowtie, and he hissed, “What! Don’t!”

“Christ, okay! You’ve got a bloody nose.”

“My nose?”

Patrick stepped fully into the bathroom. He flipped the light switch and met his reflection. He couldn’t see himself clearly, due to the overhead light swapped for a blacklight. Still, the blood from his nostril was there. It was a dark river among the shimmer of makeup on his face. He flared his nose in annoyance.

“I’m fine.”

Pete clicked his tongue, “I didn’t ask if you were fine. I told you that you’ve got a bloody nose.”

“What’s with the attitude?”

“Dunno. I’ll bet it has something to do with the spontaneous bodily fluids and you spazzing out at my hand.”

“Pete, please. It’s not a big deal.”

The door was shut behind Pete, and he locked it out of habit. The bathroom’s decorations of white skeletons pasted to the mirror and purple bats hanging from the shower curtain surrounded them. Their cartoonish appearance suddenly became ominous. The blacklight like a stormcloud above them.

“Don’t,” Patrick said.

“I’m not. We’re not.”

Patrick dodged whatever this conversation was about and went to grab a handful of toilet paper. He took more than he needed and still managed to dirty every panel with blood. It was crumpled and sent to the waste bin. He washed his hands, the soap’s lemongrass scent inhaled. The water was shut off, his hands wiped on the front of his pants.

Setting his Starbucks cup on the counter, Pete wondered, “Did Elisa find out? Because I can always tell her that it’s drama from the fans, you know. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Patrick gritted. “And no, she didn’t find out. That was _so_ long ago, anyway. There’s nothing to find out.”

In his pocket, he touched the baggie. His focus was on getting what he came in here for. He was intent on finding a way to remove Pete from the situation. He was unaware of that cautious look across from him. 

“Okay, ‘nothing to find out’. It’s all normal.”

“.. It is.”

“Then take a piss.”

“What?”

Pete feigned innocence, “Uhm, that’s what you came to the bathroom for? And you just happened to get a bloody nose?”

Patrick was visibly annoyed, and the air tightened in his line of sight. He huffed, “Can you leave?”

“No.”

Patrick’s arms were folded. He wanted to stand his ground and reiterate that it was a reasonable request to be alone when he took a leak. It was tough. Dizziness was overtaking him and the blood had reappeared from the depths of his nose. He swallowed. He was trying hard to seem in control. 

“Kiss me and I’ll leave. Swear,” Pete said. He pressed his spine to the door. He emphasized, “No weak shit. Save that for her.”

They rushed forward. Patrick was the first to grab, his palm sticky on Pete’s neck. The blood was blurred between them, more oozing out from the pressure of the kiss. The lingering alcohol on their lips was shared and a hesitance to further the action was mutual. It was almost awkward - something nobody would admit. It had been over two years. They wouldn’t admit that, either.

Pete pinched Patrick’s waist, surprised him, and then slid down. His hand shoved into that left pocket, where he had noticed some fidgeting earlier. He felt the plastic and instinctively began yanking it out. The baggie tore before any defense could be taken, the powder taking flight. He had flung it into the tub, its contents arching over them. They gasped.

“ _The hell_ !” Pete roared. 

Patrick’s mouth was wide open, the blood and Pete’s saliva glossy at the corners. He didn’t move until the last of the powder reached the floor. Gone. Now a thin layer in this stupid bathroom rather than snorted into his system. He made a fist and rubbed his eyes. The eyeshadow transferred to his knuckles and he grimaced at the stain after pulling his hand back. He couldn’t believe this. Not that he had been discovered, no, that he was being deprived. 

“Are you serious?” Pete asked, his voice just shy of a shout. He wanted to grab the other man by the shoulders, but instead guarded the door. He wanted answers. “What was that?”

Frowning, Patrick replied, “You know. I’m sure it was on your.. long list of suspicions.”

“My what!?”

“Problems with Elisa, fear of this new record, me feeling l-like a faggot for half of my career, my weight, and the, these drugs. All that stuff dragging me.”

“Nothing should be dragging you,” Pete said, confused. He continued to block the door.

Patrick shifted to the floor, his suit forcing his movements to be rigid. Legs straight, his disheveled hair padded onto the sink cabinet. The blonde was electric in the blacklight, uncomfortably bright from above.

“The coke makes me feel stable.”

“It fucking shouldn’t,” Pete told him, edging toward the floor. “Doing a few bumps before concerts when we were, you know, younger is one thing, but you can’t be--”

“Oh, I fucking am!” Patrick barked. He twisted in Pete’s direction, teeth bared. His arms flailed out, creating a grand, sloppy gesture. “I need it. And that shouldn’t matter to you, because I’ve needed you plenty and you never bothered to look twice. Asshole!”

Together, they were motionless. Seated on the bathroom rugs, sprinkled with cocaine, neither knew what to do. Halloween’s biggest monsters. They felt terrible for separate reasons, and collectively terrible for not understanding one another. Pride and emotional immaturity stunted their conversation. Or so they thought.

Outside, they could hear the rumblings of a line forming. 

“You’re not an addict,” Pete said. Their distance was shortened as he scooted, and he touched Patrick’s nearest wrist. They flinched.

“Uh huh. The minute you leave, I’m leaving, too. But I’ll be going home to take a giant hit from the shoebox I keep under my nightstand,” Patrick retorted with a laugh. It was the same laugh from earlier that evening; he had already forgot its reason by the time it ended.

“Is that a threat?” Pete’s touch became a grip. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s really not..”

Pete took a breath and leaned in. The glitter from his hair rubbed onto Patrick’s shoulder, and he wished he could mimic that laugh. Their makeup was a mess, and he was certain they had a coating of powder on their backsides. That baggie had been full to the top. He leaned further, kissing the neck he found. If they had to leave the bathroom together, they should save the partygoers the trouble of wondering and squeeze in a quickie. Better yet, they could exit out the front door. Get called queers along with sellouts. He shook his head, a nostalgia tinging his words, “We always had more fun when you were reckless.”

“Yeah. Shut up.”

“Can I take you home?”

**Author's Note:**

> Spooky.


End file.
